Rebels Never Prosper
by KimoriShadows
Summary: After Boudicca's Rebellion, Rome takes Britannia to the battlefield to teach him a lesson.  Rated T for descriptions of battlefields. Ancient Britain is my interpretation on the character; apologies to those disliking fan characters. Angsty drabble.


Oh gods, what had he done?

There was no reprieve, no way out of this one. He could not die, but Britannia had never felt closer to death than that moment.

Those fingers in his hair, twisting, yanking his eyes about the field in which he was knelt, pushed down and held by Rome's calloused hands (like his heart, if he had one). Two thousand pulses raced through his head- those drums, gods damn it all, those drums wouldn't stop though the battle was over- and their scent thrummed through his head and he mused to himself if he were sick that if would be the most pleasant thing in this unholy place. He knew his men did not fear death, for they would come back as something better, greater; they had died as heroes.

But what about the women? What about the children? The Romans had hacked everything to pieces; it was impossible to tell where one grasping hand ended and one dull, staring eye began, watching insects slowly chew away at it.

Oh gods, what had he done?

It had filled him with such hope but mere months before. A woman with flames for hair was slaughtering the Romans like lambs for revenge for what they had done. He had laughed and cheered and his manacles had joined in- more so the night of the battle. Then he had danced along with his men in his dark cell and his head felt giddy with their drink- his drink- and his chains has giggled along and now he wondered to himself whether they had been laughing with him or at him. He had pressed his sweat-soaked face to the hot bars (everything Roman was boiling, too hot too hot, and he knew Rome hated his cold chills and his North wind and his snow and rain and hail and clouds and gods, he would never give them away, not until his island sank into the ocean) and sworn and sworn at him in as many tongues as he could muster and Rome had not flinched, even when he had launched the very best fireballs from his laughing catapult of a tongue.

Rome had been worried (Britannia knew it, and he wouldn't forget it, even if it was only a second) but he had not been, even as the horns sounded and the hunt for blood began. They had charged (he knew this for he had felt the rumbling and shaking of the earth under so many feet and it had made him laugh again and again and roar until his throat was sore) and then the wall had come.

The Romans had sliced through his men and all of a sudden panic had seized him and oh gods, they were trapped. The carts.

Why, why had they been so stupid? So arrogant? He could feel a thousand Roman swords thrusting into his chest again and again and he hadn't let himself forget Rome had been- no, was, was worried, even as he screamed and fell to the ground and writhed (or perhaps he had simply gripped the wall and borne it- yes, Britannia liked that, it had hurt him so much but he hadn't shown it, yes, yes) and even when Rome was laughing and there was a blade at his throat and that warm metal was wrong- so wrong- it was almost as hot as his blood and no, no, no, it was supposed to be cold.

One day Rome would fall. One day they would all fall down and never be put back together again and then- oh, then. Then he would laugh and use his sword to find out if there really was a heart in Rome's chest (his teeth, his bare hands, anything would do whilst that bastard burned) and he would dance on his grave and play merry tunes and blow the hunting horn and roar to the skies- where are your gods now? WHERE ARE THEY?

But the taste of his cold air was hot –it was wrong, it was wrong- with the fires of battle and that flesh, that hot, hot flesh that was now so cold and those fingers pulled his head back so far he felt his neck could snap easily. Hot breath burned his cheek and his ear and fire licked through his head with those words.

"A lesson." Rome almost sounded entertained. It had hurt him, too, Britannia consoled himself with that, and Germania was still fighting and gods knew that hurt Rome too. "For next time you think about going against the Roman gods and our Emperor."

"One day..." Britannia choked and gritted his teeth- don't breathe too much... go ahead, breathe it all in- "...Rome will burn. You will crumble and rot and I will laugh."

He was face-down in the dirt and blood and it was all around him, stinging his eyes and choking him like a rope around his neck.

"Next time, Britannia, it will be your son lying amongst the dead."

What had he done?

Arthur...  
Gods help him.  
Just keep running and hiding with him, soon he will grow and then you'll be sorry, Rome. Then my son will make the whole world sorry. And if Rome crumbles and I am not there, Rome, my son will laugh and I shall roar through your remains as the wind. Until then. You just wait.

You just wait.


End file.
